The slow-bruise of history

Geese bruise the higher sky.
In triplicate they travel past
the patulous white pimple

of a mountain marring
our landscape. I can see it
in its insistence on holding

history, the way it weaves
its veins between root and
soil well nigh into the next

town over. I can see its three
carved bodies on horses still
hurting, still hurting. This town

reverberates like empty CSX
cabins until all that's left some days
is an iron echo. Like the calls

of geese in February, high-lording
over weakness like the hills.
As the docile shop signs and

neon lanterns blinker
in disbelief at all this
remote & savage beauty

Author's Note

2017

Reviews

[Robert Trakofler]

I remember the empty carcasses of the Jones and Laughlin plant 5 blocks from my house and the mass exodus of mill workers the empty boarded up storefronts and I still hears the whispers of those geese when I walk along the old trail along the river where the factory workers would pile out to eat there lunches on soot free sunny days. its all changed now but the images are as indelible as this poem

[Eilis]

Would love to see that poem from you, Robert. That is a very evocative scene. I love that that's where this took you, too, because that was exactly the feeling I wanted to come through.

Interesting how our human settlements are always in flux, but sometimes that flux creates pockets of stagnation. People (spirits) that never learn how to walk the same way again.

Thanks for sharing that story, and for visiting.

[CD Campbell]

We live in strange world. That bruise on the stone mountain side can be seen as evil and as heritage. Sometimes evil can only be described in the view from the passenger side mirror. Objects may be closer than they appear. I'm not an apologist for the confederacy, but some history just can't be wiped away nor should it. Some people seem to forget the evils of Stalin and the great purge but want to bring up how bad christianity is by going back to the crusades. That was a long time ago. Damn, things can be complicated. Your poem tells me that. What are the answers?
Packing away the above, re-reading the prose, I can feel sympathy and depth in your imagery. It can be a seen as melancholic work of art, like a drooping flower that hasn't lost its color. It still has its beauty even under stress. It's a really good poem. I think so anyway.

[Eilis]

I've grown up in the shadow of that mountain. Where I live now, I can see it if I walk outside. It's interesting because it means different things to different people. And those meanings continually shift. My mother grew up seeing crosses burned there where her family owned a large swathe of the connected land. Distance offers perspective, but, as you allude here, there is never only one perspective. So, how do you proceed. The biggest question of our times, perhaps.

I can't reconcile the two sides of this story, because they are both relevant to me. So, I just try to think about it until I have something important to say.

Like the crusades and Stalin, yes. There is never only one thing to say. There is never a solid, total defense or perfectly crafted answer. History is what it is and forgetting it is not an option. Not a good one, anyway.

Thanks for the great comment, CD.

[CD Campbell]

You are very welcome. I deleted my lost comment as in hindsight it could be misconstrued to be heading in a bad direction and I'm not like that. It's a touchy subject for a reason. Have a great weekend, Eilis.

[Eilis]

Thanks, CD. A great weekend to you as well.

[gram linski]

Savage beauty in your poetry once again, Eilis, with a hint of decay, mute swans and geese come to rest for a few weeks, not far from me on their way to Canada a nature reserve, a glass fronted room, some feeding pellets, great way to spend a sunday afternoon

[Eilis]

We never had Canada geese by me until about ten years ago, that I can remember. Now they live here year round but are especially everywhere in autumn. I love to hear their honking flying over in V formation. Sounds like a nice day out there for sure.

Thanks for reading my poems, Gram.